Yellow Sky
by momtara
Summary: Elyon is born in the eye of a hurricane. Everything is red and Queen Weira doesn't know if she will live to see her daughter. But still she comes, is brought into their world like the petals of a lotus being forced apart by careless hands. The heir to the Meridian throne opens her eyes for the first time, and she cries. / Or, the tale of what became of the Meridian royal family.


When Weira is born, a celebration is held in her honour. The kingdom of Meridian congregate before the palace, jubilant and loyal under a golden sun. Bright bunting lines the narrow streets, and the fruits of the harvest are shared between peasant farmers and merchant lords alike. Dancing and revelry last long into the night. The rolling pastures are lush and green with vitality, the sky a clear azure blue.

Meridian's castle is bright and vast enough to raise a tiny princess with wisdom far beyond her years. As well as possession of great magical power, Weira is blessed with more compassion than the rest of us. She sees value in each and every living thing, from her beloved parents to the butterfly caught in a spider's web. She dashes through the palace halls joyfully, hands full with her heavy skirts, her laughter a peal of bells. Her eyes light up when her mother teachers her the ways of their people. One day, Princess Weira will be queen.

She meets her husband at a tender age. It is an arranged marriage, but she could grow to care for anyone. Falling in love with Zanden is as natural as breathing. Queen Weira rules her kingdom with a firm and loving hand, a mother raising a child. Her people are faithful to their matriarch, and the kingdom prospers. Queen Weira is adored by her people, with friends and allies far and wide. The Meridian people are happy, and even moreso when the queen's belly begins to bloom with the swell of pregnancy. They pray that their next queen will be as benevolent as her mother, and are astounded to welcome a would-be king instead.

* * *

When Phobos is born, a celebration is held in his honour. The kingdom of Meridian congregate before the palace, jubilant and loyal under a golden sun. Bright bunting lines the narrow streets, and the fruits of the harvest are shared between peasant farmers and merchant lords alike. Dancing and revelry last long into the night. The rolling pastures are lush and green with vitality, the sky blue and filled with heavy clouds. He is born in springtime, and the poppies that grow in the Meridian fields are intoxicating, making the peasants lethargic.

Prince Phobos is wide-eyed and keenly astute. His mother shows him the butterflies, and he is confused by their vagabond ways; why would anyone ever want to leave this kingdom? Queen Weira feigns a smile in response. His hands are never idle, and he is quick to learn. Prince Phobos reads until his grey eyes flutter close in exhaustion. He devours information, volumes of law books and anthologies on Metamoor politics, leafing through thousands of pages with steadfast zeal. He scours the palace library for philosophy, folklore, geography, spending every moment learning about his culture. He has no patience for fairytales, but his mother sings him to sleep with songs of their people each night. Meridian is the only thing that Prince Phobos loves. His intelligence surpasses his parents' quickly, and they adore him with all their hearts for it.

Still, there is _something_ about him that the king and queen can't quite put their finger on.

* * *

Meridian panics when the queen is unable to produce an heir. Countless healers offer their aid, potions and herbal elixirs, but her body fails her each month, and she spends the week with red-rimmed eyes. The royal court is desperate. Weira beseeches the Council of Kandrakar for help, but the Oracle refuses to disrupt fate. The Meridian people are fervently hopeful, wondering if Prince Phobos will take an aristocratic wife.

When Weira finally falls pregnant, her son is just shy of thirteen years, and the people rejoice. Her belly blossoms with new life, and when the seers predict a girl she is overjoyed. Maybe she won't be like her brother, the queen muses with a twinge of guilt, before scolding herself for such a thought. What kind of mother was she?

It is midsummer when she finds Phobos gazing out over the kingdom. The sun is setting, but the baking heat permeates the land so that Weira can barely breathe through her corset. She eyes the heatwaves on the horizon and, wiping beads of sweat from her brow, places a tentative hand on her son's shoulder.

She thought he knew; she thought he always knew. That he must have. How naive she had been.

"What do you mean Elyon is going to rule?"

* * *

We still love you, they assure him. We will always love you, but she must be queen. It is the way of our people, they say. Zanden takes him hunting and rides horses with him on the palace grounds. You will still have responsibilities and duties to your kingdom, he says, but you will never be king. His mother lavishes him with gifts and as much affection as her weary, rotund form can manage. We love you, she says. Prince Phobos retreats to the library, remaining silent.

Queen Weira is not surprised when she finds her son cross-legged in the palace gardens, tearing the wings off of butterflies.

* * *

Elyon is born in the eye of a hurricane. The healers panic as her mother's skin turns a sickly grey. King Zanden holds his wife's sweat-drenched hands and won't let go, though he's sure her grip is breaking his fingers as their foreheads meet. Pain, pain, excruciating pain lacerates her. This is wrong, she thinks. Everything is red and Queen Weira doesn't know if she will live to see her daughter. But still she comes, is brought into their world like the petals of a lotus being forced apart by careless hands.

The heir to the Meridian throne opens her eyes for the first time, and she cries.

* * *

When monsoon season comes and hailstones batter the castle walls, Prince Phobos takes a blade to his young sister's bedside. She is cooing peacefully in her cradle, the halo of her fair hair framing her face delicately. White sunlight pours through the windowpanes at a slant, the dust motes hanging like a swarm of bees. He grits his teeth, brandishes the knife. The prince is careful to aim at her heart.

His hands begin to shake with the strain of a kind of…. _resistance_ , like the push of two matching magnets. A cold sweat washes over him as he takes the blade with both hands, summoning all his strength. He is livid when he realises Elyon unwittingly defends herself with her magic. "Already, she is more powerful than I!" he roars.

A heavy footfall disrupts the prince's reverie. He turns on his heel, sees the appalled faces of his mother and father. Queen Weira and King Zanden remain rooted to the ground in horror. Now they know. They can't know!

He takes one, two, three steps.

In one fell swoop, Phobos slashes their throats.

The king's knees buckle beneath him immediately. Phobos watches as his mother tries to cough, sees blood dribble out from between her lips. Elyon begins to wail, the blood of her parents matting her golden hair.

* * *

Monsoon season passes, taking the rulers of Meridian and leaving a self-appointed tyrant in their place. Cedric remains faithful at the prince's right hand. He is the only one Phobos can trust, if he can even fathom such a word. The peasants seem to know their place, none of them daring to question his authority, but whispers of a rebellion reach his ears and settle in his mind, like brown fruit growing more and more rotten with time.

Each day the prince tries to destroy his sister, and each day he fails. Little does he know, the palace servants have placed the child under a protection spell with the help of a noble shaman. The people of Meridian are proud and strong. They endure Phobos's rule, remaining steadfast in their hope.

One day a cloaked figure carries the princess across the veil, and a small town named Heatherfield is home to an alien queen until she is ready to go home.

* * *

Today, Elyon's thoughts wander during a brief recess from a meeting with a Threbian Lord. She retreats to the balcony in her bedroom and drinks in the view. Plumes of smoke billow from the towering spires that make her kingdom, the landscape punctuated by thatched roofs and greenery. Small streams wind through the villages, interrupting the green terrain. It is so like Earth, and yet so different. The air here is cleaner than Earth, though, she muses, wondering how that will change once modern technology is introduced.

The mountains reach toward the sky and touch the soft grey clouds. From here, the Meridian people look like ants to her. Still, Elyon feels like a mere star in a dark sky as she appraises her kingdom. She wonders what kind of ruler Queen Weira was. Could she ever be the leader her people needed?

Elyon lets out a soft sigh. A pair of hands rest on her shoulders, forcing her out of her reverie. She turns to see the Browns. Her parents, she affirms, a knot uncoiling in the pit of her stomach. Their smiles are as soothing as they are familiar. The queen of Meridian crashes into their warm embraces, feeling their arms wrap around her, and sheds a silent tear for the parents she never knew.

* * *

 **A/N: hello. if youve read to this point i want you to know i love you very much. i hope u enjoyed this! u have nooo idea how much blood, sweat, and tears went into this lil piece. this was all sorts of silly and self indulgent but i had soo much fun writing it!**

 **i also have a lil playlist to accompany this if anyone is interested, AND i made a w.i.t.c.h timeline of sorts. i would honestly die if u left a review. even just a smiley face. anyway! thanks for reading this far i love u very much. dont be afraid to hmu if you have any Qs or just wanna talk about w.i.t.c.h bc i am ALWAYS down for that :,)**


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